Give my best to Redbeard
by arts and letters
Summary: "Sometimes the kindest thing we can do for the people we love is to let them go...but that doesn't make it any easier for the ones who are left behind." (New Sequel! In Absentia)


A/N: 4/12/15: I'm very happy to report that thanks to the awesome Blackie-Noir, this story now has a Spanish translation of its very own! You can find it in my favorite stories page, and here's the direct url: s/11115317/1/Dale-recuerdos-a-Barbarroja

This story also has an in progress sequel called In Absentia that you can find by going to my profile.

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><p><strong>Give My Best to Redbeard<strong>

**Friday, April 18**

Sherlock and John burst through the door of 221B Baker Street, exhilarated after the successful conclusion of the afternoon's case.

They sat down in their respective chairs, and once they both took a moment to catch their breaths, John broke the silence.

"God, I missed this."

"Domestic bliss not all it's cracked up to be?"

"No, it's just that every once in a while, it's good to get out."

"For most people, that would mean spending a night at a pub, or watching a football game, not chasing down criminals and holding them at gun point."

"Well, as you've always gone out of your way to remind me, we're not most people."

"How true. On that note, would you care for a post-case meal at Angelo's?"

"Will you actually eat something?"

"I see no reason not to now that the case has been wrapped up. Unless you have to get home to Mary and the baby, that is."

"Her name is Emma, not 'the baby,' but I told Mary I might be out late, so she won't be expecting me back for dinner."

"Well, that's settled, then."

And off they went, to dinner at Angelo's in the booth by the window, with a candle at the table because John no longer bothers to correct Angelo about their relationship status.

A few hours later, they were back in the flat having post-case tea. Or rather, John was sitting in his chair, drinking his tea, and writing up notes on the day's case for his neglected blog, while Sherlock played a quiet, contemplative piece on the violin.

It was just the way their evenings used to be—before the fall, before Mary and Emma, and all the rest of life got in the way.

John was so lost in his writing that he did not immediately realize when the violin playing ceased. It was only when Sherlock sat down and started to speak that John looked up from his computer.

"John, I need to tell you something."

"Is this going to be one of those, 'Sherlock is actually a girl's name' moments? Because if you want a hug, you can go ahead and ask like a normal person."

"No, John, I—there's no easy way to say this."

And the look on Sherlock's face, the way he halted in his speech, made John suddenly feel very cold, despite the warmth of the flat.

"I have an inoperable, malignant brain tumor."

John was so shocked by Sherlock's words that he nearly choked on his tea, and it would almost have been funny if the whole situation weren't so unspeakably sad.

"Sherlock, is this another one of your sick jokes? Like, I'm going to throw myself off a building and not actually die? Or this bomb is about to blow us up, but actually it's not, because there's always an off switch?"

John took a deep breath to steady himself, his voice starting to crack.

"Please, Sherlock, tell me this is another one of your bloody magic tricks."

"No magic tricks this time, John. I can show you the scans if you want to see them."

Sherlock's voice was so matter of fact that it made John want to punch him in the face.

"Yes, in fact I do want to see them, and I'd also like to know what your treatment plan is."

"Surely you're listening comprehension skills haven't deteriorated this much in my absence. What part of 'inoperable brain tumor' do you fail to grasp?"

"Fine, no surgery, yes, I am in fact a doctor and a literate human being, but Mycroft must have you access to the best doctors in the UK—or hell, the whole free world. There must be something someone can do."

"There isn't. I won't be pursuing treatment, because there is no treatment to pursue."

"So, what, you're just going to let yourself die?"

"What other choice do I have?"

"You're bloody Sherlock Holmes. I'm sure you can come up with something."

"Oh, John, you always had so much faith in me."

The use of the past tense didn't escape John's notice, and although Sherlock's tone started off biting, it softened the next moment.

"Please, take me at my word when I say that nothing can be done. It will save us both a lot of pain."

John didn't know how to respond to that. His head was spinning, his chest hurt, and he felt like the ground had suddenly dropped out from under him.

"Wait, Sherlock, how long have you known?"

"Not that long."

"Not that long as in a couple days? Or not that long, meaning 'I've been keeping this from you for the past five months'?"

"The exact time frame isn't important."

Sherlock waved his hand in a dismissive gesture, even as he went on to explain himself.

"I wanted to know more before I told you. I wanted to be sure—but I am sure now. It's hard to predict exactly how much time I have left, but it is on the order of months."

Sherlock took a deep breath, as if to steady his nerves, and then continued, his voice even softer than before.

"I'm sorry. I know this is all very sudden."

It may have been the first sincere apology he had ever received from Sherlock, and somehow it only made everything hurt more.

"There's nothing to apologize for. I'm glad you told me, even if you took your time doing it. But Sherlock, you're not alone with this. Whatever happens, you have me and Mary, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hooper—and your bloody brother who is probably watching this entire conversation on one of his stupid surveillance devices."

"I know, John. But it's almost midnight, and you have a wife and child to go home to. Give my love to Mary and the bab—Emma."

John didn't want to leave, and his feet felt like lead, but as always, Sherlock was right, so John got up and grabbed his coat.

As he prepared to leave the flat, John looked back at his friend who was standing with his back turned away from the door, violin in hand.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

"Goodbye, John."

And with that, John left.

The moment he shut the door, he heard the sounds of the violin resume, and the slow, mournful music made his heart ache.

He wanted to rush back through the door, shake Sherlock, hug him, tell him how important he was, tell him that he wasn't allowed to die, tell him that he would never leave his side—but now he had Mary and Emma, and he had to get home to them.

So he turned away and walked out into the London night even though he felt like he left a piece of his heart behind.

John had no way of knowing that it would be the last time he would see Sherlock alive, but later, after he got the news, he would look back on this moment and realize that the whole adventure, from start to finish—the crime scene, the manhunt, the triumphant dinner at Angelo's, the tea at the flat—had been Sherlock's way of saying goodbye.

**Saturday, April 27 **

When there was a knock at the door, Mary had her hands full with Emma, so John went to answer it, expecting it to be Mrs. Ellis complaining about the baby crying—even though that's what babies do—or Kate looking for her errant son, Isaac.

Instead he was greeted by an even less welcome face.

"Mycroft, um, hi, what are you—"

"Eloquent as always, John. May I come in?"

From the other room he could hear Mary calling, "John, who's at the door?"

To Mycroft, he said, "Um, yes, of course come in." And then, a little louder, "Mary, it's Mycroft."

Mary came rushing into the room, "Wait, did you say Mycr—Well, hello, Mycroft, fancy seeing you here. What can we do for you today?"

"I'm sorry to disturb you, Mrs. Watson, but I'm afraid I must intrude on your privacy for a few moments. I have some news I must share with your husband."

"Yes, well, of course, come have a seat. I'll just be in the other room."

"Actually, Mrs. Watson, I think it would be best if you stayed."

"Sure, okay then. Can I get you anything? Tea, biscuits?"

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Watson, but that won't be necessary."

And so they settled into the living room, John and Mary seated next to each other on the couch, Mycroft perched in the uncomfortable, straight-backed chair that was more for show than function.

Even before Mycroft started to speak, John felt a knot in his stomach.

"There's no easy way to deliver this news, but I wanted to tell you in person."

And now John felt his throat start to constrict.

"Sherlock passed away last night, in his bedroom at 221B Baker Street. There were no signs of foul play. The cause of death appears to be complications related to my brother's condition, which I'm aware he recently disclosed to you."

Mycroft paused to give John or Mary a chance to interject, but John already had his head buried in his hands, and Mary was just staring wordlessly at the floor, one arm wrapped protectively around the shoulders of her grieving husband.

"I'm sorry to have been the bearer of such sad news. I shall apprise you of the funeral arrangements once they have been made."

With that, Mycroft stood up and headed to the door, umbrella in hand. Mary followed him a moment later.

He hadn't planned to say anything more, but once they were at the door, the words came out before he had a chance to stop them.

"It gave Sherlock a great measure of peace to know that John would have you to look after him once my brother departed from this world. Your family is very fortunate to have you—just as Sherlock was very fortunate to have John."

"Sherlock was lucky to have you, as well."

"I'm not sure he ever thought so, but your sentiment is appreciated nonetheless. Good day, Mrs. Watson."

"Goodbye, Mycroft. Take care of yourself."

And with that, Mary shut the door to their flat where the sounds of Emma's insistent crying were almost enough to overshadow John's quiet grief.

_The Blog of Dr. John H. Watson_

**To the Greatest Man I Have Ever Known**

Two days ago, Sherlock Holmes was found dead in his flat, the same flat we shared for two wonderful, crazy years. I wish that I could have been there in his final moments, to ease his suffering, to say goodbye, to tell him how much he meant to me, although I'm sure he already knew. After all, he was Sherlock Holmes. He probably deduced it from the way I butter my toast or the knot I use to tie my shoes.

Sherlock Holmes was the greatest man I will ever have the privilege to know. Anyone who spent a few moments in his presence can attest to that. Even when he was being his most frustrating, most vexing, most taxing self, the workings of his mind were a wonder to behold.

I flatter myself to say that I knew him as well as any one could. Still, even to me, he was always something of an enigma, but of one thing I am certain: Sherlock Holmes was more than a great man; he was also a good man.

With a brain like his, he could have made a fortune as a businessman or risen in the ranks of the British bureaucracy. Instead, he chose to solve crimes.

Of course, he loved the adventure and the puzzles and the thrill of the chase, but even though he would never admit it, there was more to it than that. In his own way, he was restoring order to the world, righting wrongs and ensuring justice in a way that he was uniquely suited to do.

Sherlock Holmes was a good man, and he was my best friend.

He will be missed more than words can say.

**Sunday, April 27 **

It was past the time when Molly Hooper should be at the morgue, but after she had gotten the phone call from a distraught Lestrade, she couldn't imagine going anywhere else.

"I didn't think you were scheduled to be on duty today, Ms. Hooper."

Although she was startled by Mycroft's voice—she hadn't heard him come in, was he here the whole time?—to her credit, she regained her composure quickly.

"I just had to see for myself, that it was really him this time. I guess after you help someone fake their death once…"

"Yes, the boy who cried wolf. Rather a theme for my brother."

"I just had to see for myself."

A pause, then, "Well, has your curiosity been satisfied?"

Molly nodded, in lieu of words.

When she looked up at Mycroft, he was surprised to find that she hadn't been crying, although her eyes were just a little bit brighter than they might usually be.

"The autopsy report says that he died of an aneurism."

"Yes, so it does."

"But that's not how he died."

"Is that so?" His words form a question, but the tone leaves no doubt that it's a statement.

Molly took a breath, and then continued, never taking her eyes off of Mycroft's face.

"I know he would never admit it, but he was grateful, in his own way, for everything that you did for him. And he probably didn't even know the half of it."

A pause, another inhalation, and then, "It must have been very hard, after all that you've done to protect him over these years, to have it be something so completely out of anyone's control."

"One thing I have learned from my time in her Majesty's service is that far fewer things are under our control than we would like to believe, even when you have the entire British military at your disposal."

Mycroft couldn't quite keep the bitterness from his voice when he added, "That was certainly true in every way with my brother."

Uncomfortable with the turn this conversation had taken, Mycroft prepared to take his leave, but then Molly spoke again.

"Sometimes, the kindest thing we can do for the people we love is to let them go."

"Wise words, Ms. Hooper."

"But that doesn't make it any easier for the ones who are left behind."

Mycroft didn't say anything in response, because there was really nothing to say, and—although he would never admit it, even to himself—he found he was at a loss for words.

Which was fine, because Molly has always been very good at filling silence.

"If you ever need anything—if you want to talk, want someone to listen—I would offer to give you my number, but from what Sherlock has said, you probably have access to every phone number I've ever had."

"Hardly a difficult task. You've only had two mobile numbers, and you haven't bothered with a landline since you moved into your own flat four years ago."

"Yes, okay, well…okay."

In response to her obvious discomfort, Mycroft softened his tone.

"Thank you, Ms. Hooper, for your kind offer. I will notify you once the funeral arrangements have been made."

Mycroft turned to leave, but once he had reached the entry way of the morgue, before crossing the threshold and without turning around, he added, "Ms. Hooper, have you ever played Operation?"

"The board game? Yes, when I was a girl."

When he didn't seem inclined to elaborate, she asked, "Why?"

"Just idle curiosity."

And with that, he opened the door and left.

The sound of the door closing behind him echoed loudly in the large, cavernous room.

Alone with the corpses once again, Molly turned back to the body of the man she never stopped loving from afar and kissed him lightly on the cheek before drawing the sheet back over his head.

She didn't leave, though. Instead she sat down in a chair, pulled out a book and started to read. After all, she figured—even in death—no one should have to spend the night alone, especially not a man like Sherlock Holmes.

She just hoped, for his sake, that death wasn't too boring.

**Friday, April 25**

_It's time –SH_

Although the text message Mycroft just received contained only two words and those initials, he knew exactly what it meant, and as tempting as it was to pretend like he had not received it, he knew his brother was not someone who could be ignored.

What Mycroft really wanted to say in response was, "Are you sure?" Or maybe, "There will never be a time for this." But instead he simply replied:

_I'll be there within the hour. –MH_

Twenty minutes later, he was walking through the unlocked door of 221B Baker Street.

"Your landlady appears to be conspicuously absent."

"I arranged for Mrs. Hudson's sister to take her away for a weekend jaunt to the coast. I thought this would be easier without her presence."

"There is nothing easy about any of this, Sherlock."

"Yes, well, be that as it may, here we are."

"So where would you like to do this?"

"I thought my bedroom would be the most reasonable place."

"Yes, I agree. Do you plan on wearing that?"

"Well, I thought about putting on my best suit, but I was afraid that would interfere with our goal of verisimilitude, although I'm sure this charade is largely unnecessary given your sundry connections."

"Nevertheless, appearances must be maintained as much as possible."

"How like you to think that."

"Sherlock, really, are we going to do this now?"

Sherlock continued as if he hadn't heard Mycroft's last question, which was fine, since Mycroft hadn't really expected a response.

"I assume you brought the supplies?"

"Of course."

"Good."

"Are you sure that you don't want someone else here for this?"

After a pause, Mycroft added, "John, maybe?"

"He already saw me die once. He doesn't deserve to go through that again."

"As you wish."

Without any more words, Sherlock walked into his bedroom, pulled down the covers, and got into bed.

Mycroft followed, making a face as he moved a pile of dirty laundry off the only chair in the room before sitting down.

"You couldn't have at least cleaned up a bit first?"

"I thought we were going for verisimilitude?"

"Fair enough."

Then there was silence. This may have been the first time either of them was at such a loss for words.

When Sherlock did finally speak, his voice was strained and the words were stilted, but no less meaningful for their awkwardness.

"I'm sorry to be leaving you like this. I wish there were a better way."

"As do I, Sherlock, but the East Wind comes for us all, in the end."

Mycroft couldn't restrain himself from smoothing the covers on the bed as Sherlock settled deeper under the blankets. Thankfully, Sherlock chose not to comment on the gesture.

Instead, he said, "You will stay, won't you?"

"Of course. I'll be right here."

"Thank you, Mycroft. For all of this."

"You're welcome, brother mine."

Mycroft reached into the leather briefcase and pulled out a bottle and syringe.

Sherlock looked at it carefully for a few moments, then closed his eyes and gave a subtle nod.

Then there was a small pinprick, the medicine rushing through his veins, followed shortly by a profound, peaceful somnolence.

"Just close your eyes, dear brother, take a deep breath, and go to sleep. I won't leave you."

Sherlock found he could not resist the drugs pull, nor did he want to. His body relaxed as he drifted off, and his breathing slowed. Then after a few, long moments, Sherlock took one last shuddering breath, and all motion ceased.

Mycroft reached over, pressed his fingers against his younger brother's neck to check for a pulse, and found nothing.

He smoothed the cover of the bed one last time, and said to the empty room:

"Goodbye, Sherlock. Give my best to Redbeard."

And with that, Mycroft stood up and walked stiffly out of the flat into the bright, busy London street.

Normally, he would have a driver and a personal assistant waiting to whisk him away, but today, he chose to travel alone.

He got into the driver's side of a nondescript, black passenger car with heavily tinted windows and began to navigate his way through the congested London streets back to his office.

He knew that he would be spending the afternoon making plans for another intervention in North Korea and likely dealing with the impending uprising in the Middle East, but try as he might, he could not force his usually compliant brain to focus on any of those pressing problems.

All he could think of was his brother, and how he had looked so young lying there in his bed as he took his last breaths and how he looked younger still when all life finally left him.

As he fought a losing battle to maintain control of his emotions, Mycroft could not help but think of the conversation he had with Sherlock that Christmas—the last Christmas they would spend together—as they were out in the yard, furtively smoking, trading pointed, but good natured, insults, and then how he had said to Sherlock, in an unusual moment of candor, "Your loss would break my heart."

Now, as he heard those words echoing in his head, Mycroft knew—with a deep, aching certainty—that those were the truest words he had ever said.

And since he couldn't fight it anymore, he turned the car into an empty side street, put it in park, and wept.


End file.
